


The Falcon and the Rose: Feathers and Petals

by Lykegenia



Series: Rosslyn Cousland [17]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deleted Scenes, Demisexuality, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Snippets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2019-10-08 10:53:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17385122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lykegenia/pseuds/Lykegenia
Summary: A place for extra scenes and vignettes that didn't quite make it into the main story of Falcon. Will mostly focus on the blooming relationship between Alistair Theirin and Rosslyn Cousland.





	1. Lothering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosslyn comes to find Alistair after his match duel.

By the time Rosslyn made it back to the camp, she had only just missed the end of the match and Alistair’s retreat into his tent to get changed.

“There you are,” he said as she lifted the canvas flap and stepped inside. He wet a cloth in a bowl of cool water his valet held out to him, and swiped it across the back of his neck and his now-sunburned shoulders.

She grinned. “Did you win?”

“Didn’t you see?” he asked, hurt flashing across his features.

“No, I was called away,” she replied slowly, and fiddled with a strap on her sword belt. “Someone asked me to go and rescue a Chantry sister from some bandits.”

Alistair handed the cloth back to his valet and grabbed his shirt, his hands automatically moving to thread the laces in the collar himself. “In that case, I suppose I can forgive you.”

“How magnanimous.”

He winked. “So what happened?”

“I got there just in time. I told them to surrender, they drew swords, and then I killed them.”

“But you’re not armoured,” he said, with a sharp glance at her.

“There wouldn’t have been time for that,” Rosslyn answered. “Besides, I didn’t –” Her words cut off as he strode out of his valet’s reach, still with the shirt half undone, and caught her by the shoulders.

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she reassured, placating with a hand over his heart. His touch was gentle but insistent, skimming light paths down her upper arms and back up, and the feel of it electrified her skin through the thin fabric of her summer clothes. “The bandits were little more than peasants, and Morrence and Cuno were with me.”

“They could have gotten lucky,” he insisted.

“They didn’t. The biggest trouble they’ve given me is having to tell the magistrate about the six bodies now lying in the woods.”

“ _Six_?”

She blanched. She hadn’t meant to tell him the odds.

He brought his touch down to her hand, watching as her fingers linked around his. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

With a sigh, Rosslyn leaned around Alistair and made sure the valet had excused himself, then stepped closer and finished drawing through the laces at his throat. “I’m only telling you so you won’t be mad when someone else tells you later,” she warned, as she tied the final knot.

“Sounds ominous.”

“The bandits had the Chantry sister because they thought she was an Orlesian spy,” she huffed. “Because she has an accent.”

He thought for a moment. “You recruited her, didn’t you?”

“She’s good with a bow – very good.”

“Rosslyn –”

“Morrence is watching her.” She moved around him to pick up the sleeveless doublet his valet had laid out on the stand, and waited while he shrugged it over his shoulders. “And really, what spy would choose to be a cloistered Sister? All they have to gossip about are templars.” Her fingers reached for the first clasp on the garment, but he intercepted.

“What if it turns out the innocent Chantry act was a ruse for something more nefarious, and she _is_ a spy and you’ve given her exactly what she wants? And you don’t have to dress me, by the way. I can wait until Marten comes back. Or do it myself.”

Rosslyn pursed her lips to keep from grinning at the extra flush in his cheeks, and squeezed his fingers between her own. “Like I said, Morrence is watching her. We’ll take precautions. Now let me go.”

It was Alistair’s turn to sigh. He watched as she set to work on the long line of buttons, leaned closer and slid his touch from hers around her waist. A tad presumptuous, perhaps – he hadn’t been so close to her since the night of their argument – but she didn’t pull away. He didn’t dare ruin her concentration by pressing further, even if his gaze flickered to her mouth, even if the sight of her hands on the fastenings of his clothes was going to return and haunt him later.

“Only you,” he managed. There was a shift of muscle beneath the softness of her waist. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

She finished the buttons and trailed her palm across his chest, eyes falling closed as his thumb brushed against the lower edge of her ribs. “You didn’t answer my question,” she pointed out.

“What?”

She chuckled. “Did you win the match?”

“Oh… yes.” He cleared his throat. “Your advice was very helpful, actually.”

“Good.” She heaved in a breath as if she were steeling herself to say something else, but let it out so it blew against his cheek. “I should go and see the magistrate. And you should put some shoes on.”

He glanced down at his bare toes, wriggled them against the carpeted floor. “I thought you were dressing me today?”

“I have to draw the line somewhere.”

“Ha!” Hiding his reluctance behind a smirk, he pulled away from her and gestured to the tent entrance. “Off with you then.”

She offered a courtly bow, eyes dancing with merriment as she backed away. “Dinner later? There are some scout reports I want to go over.”

He nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

He didn’t breathe until she had been lost to the sunshine, and only then because it was like she had pulled all the air away with her. He hadn’t dared to hope for so much, not even after that night when she had curled so trustingly in his arms, but seeing her so playful, looking for excuses to be near him – to touch him – infused every fibre in his body with a strange, directionless energy that meant he couldn’t stop smiling. She still held back, understandably after what she had lost, but he could be patient. She was _worth_ patience, and he would spend every moment she allowed to let her know it.


	2. The War Dog's Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosslyn's growing feelings for Alistair bring a painful reminder.

The latch on the door fell shut with a click as Rosslyn pushed herself back against the old wood, for the moment overwhelmed. She turned her head to track Alistair’s footsteps away down the corridor outside her room, but the castle’s carpet and walls were both thick enough to muffle the sound of his boots. She cradled her right hand in her palm, rubbed her fingers over the knuckles where he had kissed them. Under the spell of the memory, the surprise and the steadiness of his gaze, her breath came in a short, half-laughed burst through bitten lips, a shock like the headiness of battle – if battle could taste like honey. He had kissed her. In courtly fashion, yes, with easy form and perfect politeness, but he had lingered, drawn his thumb across her skin, looked at her so earnestly, and she had frozen like a startled deer.

On impulse, she lifted her hand to her lips and pressed an echo of the gesture against the place where her skin still tingled, half lost and half hiding the spread of her grin behind it. _He had kissed her_. On the night they argued, and afterward curled together, she had wondered if he might then, and on the morning after meeting Flemeth, they had shared so many brief touches as they helped each other with their armour, even beyond what was necessary for the task, but this was the first time that unspoken boundary had been crossed.

“Your Ladyship?”

She straightened at the sound of the voice, hauling in a deep breath to calm her features just as a human woman in the garb of one of the castle servants stepped out of an adjoining room. Rosslyn’s own maid was still on the road, travelling with the army, and so the arlessa, the consummate hostess, had sent one of hers as a replacement. Although no doubt meant as a kind gesture, after all the hard travel and the revelations of the past few days, she would have preferred to be left without attendance.

The maid bobbed a curtsey. “I am sorry the arl kept you so late, Your Ladyship. Is there anything I can do before you retire?”

“No, thank you,” Rosslyn replied with a shake of her head. “Or – wait, is there a bath I can use?”

“Of course, Your Ladyship. I’ll draw one right away, if you’ll forgive the smell – the springs we take water from are sulphurous, you know.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” She waved the maid away and limped over to the window. Now that she was out of the public eye, all the strains of the road seemed to finally be catching up to her.

The lights in the village tumbled over the foreshore beyond the castle’s bailey, oddly inviting even at such a late hour. In the morning, she would have to take Cuno down among the fisherfolk and the farmers, if only to explore the secrets of the place Alistair had once called home. For now, however, she pulled the curtains across the window, closing out the stars and the pinkish light of the moon, turning her mind away from future endeavour. He had _kissed_ her. That grin again, sneaking across her face before she could rein it in.

“The bath is ready, Your Ladyship,” the maid interrupted. “Do you need help with anything else?”

Rosslyn shook her head. “No, thank you. I just want to soak for a while, and it’s too late to be keeping you anyway.”

“As you wish, Your Ladyship. Thank you.” The woman curtsied again. “There are fresh towels by the tub, and lotions and a comb in the cabinet.”

Once she was gone, Rosslyn stretched, pulling her arms above her head until the joints popped. Already the faint odour of rotten eggs threaded through from the bathroom, with an odd, sweeter counterpoint that turned out to be a mixture of soothing lavender and merrybud the maid had thoughtfully added to the water. The delicate gold and purple blooms floated invitingly in the steam, and Rosslyn stripped off, grateful to peel away her layers until she was left with only the pleasant chill of summer air against her skin. The lotions the maid had mentioned stood in a row on an open-fronted shelf, a mismatched collection of imported glass jars with wide lids and neat labels that listed the ingredients within. Such a selection might have been interpreted as a desire to please a guest, but Isolde had been raised well enough to know that the greater courtesy would have been to provide one or two subtle, tasteful options to avoid overwhelming choice; the expense suggested instead that the arlessa was trying to show off, and Rosslyn wrinkled her nose at the absurdity of feeling the need to posture over such a little thing. She scooped an armful off the shelf and deposited them on the rim of the tub for choosing later.

The water, when she finally sank into it, drew a groan of relief from deep in her chest. Her lips parted and her eyes closed, and she let herself sink for a moment of pure bliss before she sat up and tugged the tie out of her hair so she could card her fingers through the knots. The grime and bits of leaf caught in the fine black strands were to be expected after two days’ journey through the hinterlands, but she grimaced nonetheless as she picked out the worst of it. The formari enchantment that kept the water clean glowed as she worked, casting the ripples she made with a soft light almost as pale as the sunshine in Flemeth’s glade. Alistair’s hair had ruffled as he slept that night; he had spent breakfast with it sticking up at odd angles and she had kept quiet because she enjoyed the way it framed his face.

Her fingers stilled. What would his hair look like wet? What would it feel like if she ran her fingers through it? Mechanically, she reached for one of the lotions on the side of the bath, a thick, dark liquid scented with elderflowers, lost in wondering as she poured some into her hand. Her stomach twisted. Her mind recalled that day in Lothering, the match duel with the sun baking down on bare shoulders – the rivulet of sweat that had followed the line of his neck when he leaned on the fencepost.

Even now he might be mirroring her, soaking in the water of his own bathtub, relaxed, content, enjoying the feel of his muscles loosening in the heat, completely unaware of the way her breath hitched to think of it. She ducked her head under to rinse out the bubbles and tried to turn her mind away. Was it wrong to imagine him so close, so vulnerable? The phantom touch of his hand on her waist sent an unexpected thrill through her limbs, shock enough to force her eyes open. Before she could truly register the action her hand slipped, dragging down her neck and around the curve of one breast to the sensitive inch of skin over her hip, her eyes falling closed again in a frown of concentration – not her fingers, but his.

 She stopped. She didn’t want to go further. She was no stranger to self-pleasure, but wanting to add another’s image to the bare movement of her hands had always seemed unnecessary before. Even now, she couldn’t force her mind beyond the delicacy of fingertips brushed against her skin, of soft lips pressing against her mouth. She wanted _those_ things, not the conclusion. Not even with him.

With a growl, she shook her head and reached for a sponge and another one of Isolde’s potions, working it into a lather before taking perfunctory swipes up her arms and across her body. He had kissed her on the hand, no more; the memory might be savoured, but falling now would only lead to pain. She had Highever to think of, and Ferelden, and now Orlesians and an envoy to the Clayne added into the brew. Better to forget the rest.

She towelled herself dry as the water drained from the tub, and squeezed out the extra in her hair before stalking to the armoire in her room to find a suitable shirt in which to sleep. Nan would have a fit to know she was planning to go to bed before drying out completely.

“But then Nan is most likely dead, isn’t she?” she muttered as she yanked the clean garment over her head and blew out the candles on the bedside table. “Not much she can do about it.”

The mattress dipped under her weight as she slid under the covers, drawing her knees into her chest. A deep breath in through her nose and out again to banish the old thoughts, those feelings of inadequacy that always sought reminders of her abnormality to rise from the dark corners of her mind and mock.

“ _I am not broken_ ,” she hissed, and rolled onto her side with eyes squeezed shut.

Would he see it that way? Would he turn away if she told him how the world turned differently for her? She reached out towards the pillow next to hers, stroked her fingers along it like she might a treasured face, but it only made the hollowness in her chest ring louder. How much easier it would be not to have such doubt, for him to be disinterested so she could avoid the subject altogether and dream, and drift, and pine away the haunting of confusion that left her dreading the future.

As she curled tighter in on herself she let go one last shuddering breath and brought her knuckles to her lips once more, holding the memory of Alistair so tightly her fingers pressed into the tendons in the back of her hand, defying the tears gathered on her eyelashes. Against her better judgement, her mind conjured a pair of strong arms, a kiss pressed to her shoulder, and she let herself fall asleep in the imagined comfort of being held.


	3. To The Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharing quarters can be troublesome. Rosslyn doesn't mean to stare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was talking to gingerbreton about the wonders of mutual pining, bed-sharing Oh They Were Roommates goodness, and I mentioned that the canvas sheet separating Rosslyn and Alistair's sides of the room is rather translucent. She drew the scene, and then I had to do it justice!

Water travel did not agree with Cuno. Ever since setting off from Redcliffe, the hound’s ears had drooped, his forlorn silence punctuated every now and then by a put-upon whine as he padded out the length of the captain’s tiny cabin.  He had even refused his dinner, and while in the short term this was probably a boon for all in the vicinity, it was not a trend Rosslyn could allow to continue, not when they still had a week or more of voyaging left to do, with far rougher seas ahead. She sat on the floor by her bunk, coaxing Cuno’s interest in small morsels of chicken and ship’s biscuit by pretending to make them disappear. Alistair had taught her the sleight of hand in a spare moment between meetings, when he insisted the rosebud proffered in his fingertips had been conjured entirely by magic, and she laughed now to watch the polite interest on her dog’s face turn to bewilderment as she opened her palms and revealed them to be empty.

“You’re getting the hang of that,” said a voice from the door. Alistair was soaked in sweat, his shirt sticking to the lines of his torso, face visibly flushed even in the fading twilight. From the smile playing about his mouth and the casual way he leaned against the doorframe, she guessed he had been watching her for some time, the thought of which brought a surge of heat to the back of her neck. 

“Not quite,” she replied, as he stepped behind the curtain that divided the room. A heavy paw landed on her wrist and a cold nose snuffled for the treat hidden in her sleeve. “Mhairi put you through your paces then?” 

He chuckled. “Something about wanting to ‘test me in adverse conditions’. I don’t think I’ll be able to move tomorrow.” 

Smiling, Rosslyn turned back to Cuno, aware of her cabin-mate scouring through his possessions to find a clean shirt. After a few moments of what must have been fruitless searching, she heard the strike of a match and the cramped room filled with muted, flickering light. They shared the silence, letting the creak of timbers and the distant calls of the crew wash over them, until the shunting of boxes on Alistair’s side of the room quieted to a softer ruffle of cloth and Rosslyn had to work harder to keep her mind on her dog’s entertainment.

“Would you like to have dinner?” 

She started. “I’m sure Brantis will call us when it’s our turn to eat.” She had been down to visit the Rivaini cook earlier to ask for the scraps, and even at such an early hour the smells wafting from the galley had been enough to make her stomach gurgle.

“No, I mean...” He sighed, and through the canvas divider she could see him silhouetted by the candle, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “Would you like to stay here and have dinner? The two of us. There’s a barrel in the corner we could use as a table.” 

The last words were muffled as he drew the shirt over his head. Her breath stuttered. Though she couldn’t tell which way he was facing, the candlelight clung to his outline, cutting the sharp definition of his shoulders, the way his body stretched to pull the fabric clear of his arms, and how the action left his hair a tousled mess when he finally cast the garment aside. He bent down to reach for the cloth his valet had left him that morning, and as he wiped the sweat from his neck she followed the movement despite the long-distant lessons of her upbringing that screamed at her not to stare. If she ducked around the curtain, what would he do? She imagined sliding her arms around his waist, inhaling his scent and hearing the small, sharp gasp he might make as she pressed a kiss to the mole on his right shoulder. He might turn, then, and mirror her embrace, might lean close and brush his thumb along her cheek… 

“Rosslyn?”  

Mortified, she coughed and shook herself out of the daze, hoping that her silence hadn’t stretched far enough to make him curious. “I’m here,” she reassured. “That - sounds nice. I’d like to. Although,” she added, turning sly, “are you only asking because you’re trying to hide from more etiquette lessons?” 

“Ha. Yeah.” He ducked his head, shoved a nervous hand through his hair. “That’s it exactly. You caught me.” 

The gesture brought a smile to her lips, even as guilt needled her for making him back down. She could still see him through the curtain, standing awkwardly with the cloth wrung between his hands like a penance, though the movement stilled when he heard her rise to her feet. Like shattered glass, the easy silence of before lay in the space between them, a barrier of far greater awkwardness than just a thin fold of draped canvas. She wanted to cross it, and wanted to run as far away as possible and never look back.

“I’ll go and tell Brantis to have our portions delivered here,” she offered, careful not to look round as she moved towards the corridor.

“That’s - yeah, that’s a good idea. Uh… Rosslyn?” 

“Yes?” 

“Is everything alright?” 

Still entirely too warm, she paused in the doorway and turned, wanting to reassure but unable to find the words. He watched her with a slight crease between his brows, with the softness of the candlelight gilding his skin, and again she was struck by the urge – the _desire_ – to close the space and touch him. She bit her lip, tore her gaze away. Tried to keep her breathing steady.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said at last, unable to keep her smile at bay. “Just new.”

 

* * *


	4. In The Lady's Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosslyn's grandmother reflects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a couple of notes for this chapter - first, my view of the Clayne is that they're matriarchal (Thedas as a whole is supposed to be, but we know that's bull--). They're also uxorilocal (husbands go to live with their wives' families). Lilieas is the Clan Chief, and the Storm Giant is the War Chief, who acts as a sort of ambassador (in peacetime), but she's the one he answers to. When I remaster Falcon, I'll put it in the codex entry and actually explain it. Or maybe I'll just write that Bryce x Eleanor prequel I've been thinking about...
> 
> The reason I haven't gone with Scots accents here is they're speaking in Clayne, in case anyone was wondering. Oh, and 'reefing' is a nautical term for using the sails to make a ship go slower.

The Clayne, by nature, were not a sentimental people. A life spent clinging to the edge of the sea, even one that prospered, suffered from its whims, from its storms and its swells and the monsters that haunted its depths. It was for the priestesses to worry about the dead. And yet, age brought a perspective afforded to few, a longer focus for the hurts of the world and their permanence. Memories could be uncovered and examined, like fine jewels taken from a velvet box, turned into the light and reflected upon until the shine became too painful to bear.

Lileas Nic Brianag Mac Eanraig sat before her polished silver mirror with her back straight, carefully removing the trappings of her station as Clan-Chief. First, the twisted golden torc that had been passed from matriarch to matriarch down the ages, heavy enough that its weight drew a sigh when it lifted from her neck. Then, the enamelled golden brooch her husband had smithed to clasp the cloak her mother had woven for her wedding. Finally, when that sweep of embroidered cloth was folded into its cherrywood box, she reached up to pluck the pins from her hair and tease out each individual lock with careful fingers. When she had been a sword-maiden, still earning her war braids at the helm of the _Frostleaf_ , the strands had gleamed like polished charcoal, a silk banner in the wind, instead of the ash-white fall that tumbled across her shoulders now. Her mind wandered from the image, and from the work of her fingers that had repeated many times before, and she allowed herself to be wistful.

“Do you remember when she first brought the lad to the landing?” she asked her husband, who stood contemplative by the window of their chamber.

Fearchar chuckled, in the rich, soft way he allowed only when they were alone. “I remember the look on his face. Never seen a man so jittery – and as well he might, thinking a few battle scars would make him good enough for our Eleanor.”

“They thought we didn’t notice them sneaking into one another’s rooms,” she recalled, with a fond shake of her head.

“Or up to the heath, or to the pantry – or the loft above the smithy.”

“They weren’t _that_ bad.”

“Maybe they weren’t,” he conceded, then grinned. “But we were.”

“Must you?” she griped. Of her numerous glares, the one her reflection levelled at him now held just a shade too much humour for him to take it seriously, and his smile widened.

“Still are, for all my poor bones ache. ‘Thats enough,’ the healers all say, but I tell them my lady is insatiable, it’s no sooner out of sight than – _ow!_ ” He pouted and rubbed his arm where she had hit it with her heavy silver hair-comb.

On another night, the confrontation might have sparked her to cross the room and kiss him, but the purse of her lips lost its merriment and drooped down at the corners, and she slid her gaze back to the mirror.

“They’d be proud of her,” she said.

Fearchar made not a noise as he picked up the comb from where it had fallen and came close to stand at his wife’s back. She closed her eyes as he kissed the top of her head, but the wound remained deep in her chest, the cramp of loss unassailable, but at least shared. She leaned gratefully against the hand pressed into her shoulder.

“And what do you make of that young prince following her about like a stray puppy?” he asked.

“For a start, I’m rather jealous,” she teased. “He’s quite a handsome thing.”

“Oi!”

“You’re lucky he has no eyes for me.”

“Enough, woman, leave my poor heart be.”

She chuckled and squeezed his fingers, and nodded. “He’s bold,” she allowed. “Bolder than he thinks, and no doubt she’ll bring it out in him.”

“Aye,” her husband agreed. “He’ll have to be, or he’ll never reef her – you Mac Eanraig are all the same.”

“He cares for her deeply, and she for him.”

“More than she realises, I’ll wager.”

With a sigh, Lileas rose from her seat and crossed to the bed, suddenly cold, and reached for the sheepskin throw to wrap her shoulders against the chill before taking her husband’s place at the window, so the view over the hold might steady the waver of her thoughts.

“I don’t want her to lose him, Fearchar,” she warned. “And even less I want my only daughter’s murder to go unavenged. What will we do if he fails?”

In anyone else, the question might have looked like despair, but Lady of Dunedyn had stared down dragons in her time, and had never been cowed by anything. From across the room, her husband read the challenge the moonlight gilded in the set of her jaw. Together, the pair of them had dragged the Clayne out of obscurity, had formed alliances to make trade flow, settled feuds so the people would flourish, and where their enemies would not capitulate, had broken over them like a storm surge across a beach. What was this but one more test of strength?

“We will offer what comfort we can,” he said slowly. “And then, if we must, we’ll have the gods set against us as well as the rest of the clans, but we’ll see that bastard Howe brought to ruin.” He nodded, almost to himself, and joined her at the window. The sheepskin had slid from her shoulder, so he tucked it up more snugly about her neck.

“Stout heart,” he told her. “We’re not there yet. You never know, the lad might still prevail. He’s strong, and has a fair head on his shoulders, and you’d be amazed what a young man might do to make an impression on a bonnie lass.”

“If he were a coward I wouldn’t let him have her at all,” she pointed out.

“If he were a coward, I doubt she’d pay him half a mind.”

They shared a brief smile at the truth of that, standing together with the ease of long familiarity, as close as two people could be while still standing on their own feet. Lileas folded herself against her husband’s cheek, his mouth tilted just so to press an almost-kiss to the corner of her eye. Her eyes closed. Nightjars trilled from their nests on the heath. For a moment, she let herself wallow in the comfort, but the hour was late, and a day’s hardships lay ahead.

“Come to bed soon,” she said as she stepped away. “Or my toes will freeze.”

“That’s what I’m useful for, eh?” he teased.

“You shed less than the dogs.”

With a quiet, good-natured _hmph_ he dropped his wife’s hand and let her go. The world beyond the chamber window slumbered, still except for where gusts of wind bent the grass and rattled the shell-bead chimes hanging from the eaves. Clouds roiled in the sky above, a shifting cloak that only broke here and there just enough for their rimed edges to reveal the passage of the moons above. The darkness was fitting; Vints on the water, traitors on land, and the ice in Rosslyn’s eyes, so like the Seawolf’s, as she’d been denied only that morning at the trial.

_All will be as the Lady wills it._

Sighing, he turned from his contemplation, but movement caught at the corner of his eye and drew him back. The incongruent form, furtive through the shadows, moved towards the guesthouse with the lithe gait of a cat, careful to keep to the edges of the terrace, and only revealed itself when its path forced it into the lights still burning by the main door. It was the elf who had spoken in the trial. Tabris. She clutched something in her hands – there was a dull gleam of metal as she shifted it to open the door – and when she disappeared on whatever secret errand had brought her so far from the quay, she didn’t remerge. The Storm Giant frowned, but did not call the guards, and with a final drum of his fingers on the stone sill, retreated from his vigil to rest himself for the morning.


	5. Correspondence Interrupts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair waits for a letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's been a lot of speculation about this chapter in the main fic, and a lot of time passes. There are many scenes like this one that I imagined, or tried to write, but none of them fit. Safe to say Alistair, at least, isn't taking the interruption of his letters very well.

The click-close of Alistair’s door echoed in the hallway of King Bhelen’s private wing. He had yet to figure out how, but despite everything in the royal palace being hewn from bare rock, something in the cut of the stone deadened sound, so instead of a cacophony of echoing footsteps, as he set off down the corridor he made about the same amount of noise as if he were walking on the deep plush carpets of Redcliffe Castle. He nodded to the guard on duty, hoping he wasn’t too late to his meeting with Valesh. In truth, though his lessons in the Shaperate were going well, he had lost stomach for them – for most things, it seemed – as the days dragged on and nothing happened and the Assembly dragged its heels towards any kind of treaty. It almost felt as if they were waiting for something, but Orzammar’s customs were still so unfamiliar, his suspicion was probably just a lack of sunlight making him paranoid.

He started when he almost bumped into Bhelen’s steward.

“Ronen!” he coughed. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Your Highness.” The dwarf bowed low, the gemstone beads woven into his pale beard clinking with the movement. “It was my fault, I’m sure.”

“Well I wouldn’t say – is that the post?”

Ronen held up the scratched leather satchel in his hand. It was dyed in the unmistakable scarlet of Ferelden’s royal house, with the crest of the War Dogs embossed on the front in faded gold.

“Just arrived,” the dwarf grunted.

A bolt of hope surged in Alistair’s chest before he could squash it down. “Is there… is there anything for me in there?”

With a shrug, the dwarf lifted the flap on the message compartment and picked through the contents. Strictly speaking, the clasps should have still been in place, sealed until the satchel reached Eamon’s hands, but the Ferelden presence in Orzammar had stirred up the Carta, and he had heard about incidents where weapons or explosives had slipped past the guard. Security checks had been introduced to prevent further attacks.

Alistair eyed the small stack of letters with an impatient eye. This would be the third round of correspondence since Eamon received word of the darkspawn attack, the second since he had asked specifically to know if she was alright. Cailan had mentioned injuries, and light duty, but surely that wouldn’t mean she would stop writing altogether?

“Two with your name,” Ronen announced, offering a pair of envelopes. “Plus the official report for Lord Eamon.”

“Thank you.” He all but snatched the letters from the dwarf’s fingers. The first, of course, came from Cailan, sealed in gold wax on thick, expensive pressed paper, but the second – well, who else would write to him? Would it be apology? Explanation? The handwriting wasn’t hers, though it looked familiar, and if she had needed a scribe for the past few weeks then perhaps –

The back was sealed in red, not Laurel blue, with Teagan’s Tower and Stars. Disappointment punched a breathless hole in his chest, caving him like a fall from a horse. But still a flicker of hope lingered, stubbornly holding him in that weightless moment that comes just before gravity truly takes hold.

“Are you sure that’s it?” he asked. “There isn’t one slipped between two others?”

“Would Your Highness like to look for himself?”

The offer came as a gruff riposte, but he chose to ignore the dwarf’s sarcasm and reached for the satchel. There were few letters in there, slips of sealed paper and official documents bearing the names of his guard officers, but he checked twice through, just in case something was missed. He found nothing.

“Nothing fell out?” he checked, holding back the hot lump forming at the back of his throat.

Ronen huffed. “Your Highness, I must get on with my duties.”

“Right… of course.” Alistair tried not to let his shoulders slump too far. “Thank you for these, anyway. I should… go and put them in my room.”

“A prudent idea, Your Highness.” The dwarf bowed again and started past, but Alistair caught his arm and called him to wait.

“Since you’re here, could you make sure this gets sent in the return?” he asked, pulling a white square out of his breast pocket. “It’s only short, but…”

The name on the front flashed as Ronen took it, frowning, and read the directive. “I will see it reaches the correct hands, Your Highness.”

“Thank you – and make sure the messenger knows that it’s in there, with the rest.”

“Will those ones receive an answer?” the dwarf asked, jutting his chin to the ones already given over.

“They’ll be ready by the morning. But _that_ one’s the most important.”

“Very good, Your Highness.”

Alistair watched the dwarf retreat, biting his lip as he tried to quell the despair already seeping through his blood. What had he done to deserve her silence? His thumb brushed over the two letters in his hand on the short steps back to his room, the two versions of his name written in scripts that weren’t the one he ached to see. Next time, he promised himself, next time would bring an answer, it had to. He wouldn’t have to settle any longer from second-hand reports of her exploits from Cailan, or the gushing, impersonal admiration that every time tugged like fishhooks at his heart; he could find out what was wrong and fix it, and make sure she knew exactly how he felt so she would never doubt him again.


End file.
